The village of Wensdale was snugly shut in from the rest of the world in
a narrow valley. It had a little river flowing through it, and a little
grey church standing on a hill, and a rose-covered vicarage, a
blacksmith's forge, and a post-office. Further up the valley, where the
woods began, you could see the chimneys of the White House where Squire
Chelwood lived, and about three miles further on still was Dorminster, a
good-sized market-town. But in Wensdale itself there was only a handful
of thatched cottages scattered about here and there round the vicarage.
Life was so regular and quiet there that you might almost tell the time
without looking at the clock. When you heard cling, clang, from the
blacksmith's forge, and quack, quack, from the army of ducks waddling
down to the river, it was five o'clock. Ding, dong from the
church-tower, and the tall figure of Mr Vallance climbing the hill to
read prayers--eight o'clock. So on throughout the day until evening
came, and you knew that soon after the cows had gone lowing through the
village, and the ducks had taken their way to bed in a long uneven line,
that perfect silence would follow, deep and undisturbed.
In this quiet refuge Maggie's baby grew up for seven years, under the
name of Mary Vallance. She was now nine years old. As she grew the
qualities which had shown themselves as a baby, and made Perrin call her
as "orty as a duchess," grew also, though they were kept in check by
wise and loving influences. To command seemed more natural to her than
to obey, and far more pleasant, and this often caused trouble to herself
and others. True, nothing could be more thorough than her repentance
after a fit of naughtiness, for she was a very affectionate child; but
then she was quite ready on the next occasion to repeat the offence--as
ready as Mrs Vallance was to forgive it. Mary was vain, too, as well
as wilful; but this was not astonishing, for from a very little child
she had heard the most open remarks about her beauty. Wensdale was a
small place, but there were not wanting unwise people in it, who
imagined that their nods and winks and whispers of admiration were
unnoticed by the child. A great mistake. No one could be quicker than
Mary to see them, to give her little neck a prouder turn, and to toss
back her glittering hair self-consciously. So she knew by the time she
was nine years old that she had beautiful hair and lovely eyes, and a
skin like milk--that she walked gracefully, and that her feet and hands
were smaller and prettier than Agatha Chelwood's. All this strengthened
a way she had of ordering her companions about imperiously, as though
she had a right to command. "No common child," she often heard people
say, and by degrees she came to think that she was very _un_common
indeed--much prettier and cleverer than any of the other children.
"You've no call to be so tossy in your ways, Miss Mary," said Rice, the
outspoken old nurse at the White House; "handsome is as handsome does."
But Mary treated such a remark with scorn.
If the little clog, standing on the mantel-piece in her bed-room, could
have spoken, what strange and humbling things it would have told her!
For to belong to poor people would have seemed dreadful to Mary's proud
spirit. As it could not, however, she remained in ignorance of her real
condition, and even in her dreams no remembrance of her real mother, or
of the gypsies and her playfellows Bennie and Mossy, ever came to visit
her.
Things at Wensdale had not altered much since Mary had been left there
as a child of two years old. The roses still flourished in the vicarage
garden under Mr Vallance's loving care, and he still thought them much
finer than Chelwood's. At the White House there were now three children
in the nursery and four in the school-room, of whom the eldest was a
girl of ten named Agatha. These were Mary's constant companions; she
joined them in some of their lessons and in all their pleasures and
plans of amusement. Not a picnic or a treat of any kind took place
without her, and though quarrels were not unknown, Mary would have been
very much missed on these occasions. It was she who invented the games
and gave names to the various playgrounds in the woods; she could climb
well, and run swiftly, and had such a daring spirit of adventure that
she feared nothing. In fact, her presence made everything so much more
interesting, that, by common consent, she was allowed to take the lead,
and no expedition was considered complete without her. Perhaps her
contrast to the good, quiet, brown Agatha, who was so nearly her own
age, made her all the more valued. Agatha was always ready to follow,
to give up, to yield. She never tore her frocks, always knew her
lessons, was always punctual; but she never invented anything, and had
to be told exactly what to say in any game requiring imagination. So it
came to pass naturally that Mary was at the head of everything, and she
became so used to taking the command that she sometimes did so when it
was neither convenient nor becoming. There were indeed moments when
even Jackie, her most faithful supporter among the Chelwood children,
rebelled against her authority, and found it poor fun for Mary always to
have her own way and arrange everything.
Jackie was nine years old, and felt in himself a large capacity for
taking the lead: after all, why _should_ Mary always drive when they
went out in the donkey-cart, or settle the place for the fire to be made
when they had a picnic, and choose the games, and even order about
Fraulein Schnipp the governess? Certainly her plans and arrangements
always turned out well, but still it became tiresome sometimes. Jackie
grew restive. He had a quarrel with Mary, who flew down the garden in a
rage, her hair streaming behind her like the tail of an angry comet.
But it did not last: Jackie had a forgiving spirit, and was too fond of
her to be angry long. He was always the first to make up a dispute, so
that Mary was not at all surprised to see him soon afterwards waiting
outside the vicarage door in a high state of excitement. He was going
to drive with father in the dog-cart to Dorminster--might Mary come too?
Consent given, Mary lost no time in throwing on a hat and jacket, while
Squire Chelwood's tall horse fretted and caught impatiently at his bit:
then she was lifted up to Jackie on the back seat, and they were soon
rolling quickly on their way. It was good of Jackie to have asked for
her to go, Mary thought, after she had been so cross. She could not
have done it in his place, and she determined to give him a very
handsome present on his birthday, which was coming soon.
There were few things the children liked better than going into
Dorminster with the squire. Beside the pleasant rapid drive, perched up
on the high dog-cart, there was so much to see, particularly if it
happened to be market-day; and, above all, Mr Greenop lived there. Mr
Greenop was a bird-fancier, and kept an interesting shop in the
market-place, full of live birds and stuffed animals in glass cases.
There was always a pleasant uncertainty as to what might be found at
Greenop's, for he sometimes launched out in an unexpected manner. He
often had lop-eared rabbits to sell, and Jackie had once seen a monkey
there: as for pigeons, there was not a variety you could mention which
Greenop could not at once produce.
He was a nice little man, very like a bird himself, with pointed
features and kind, bright eyes; when he wore a dash of red in his
neck-cloth the resemblance to a robin was striking. The children
applied to him when any of their pets were ill, and had the utmost
confidence in his opinion and treatment. The most difficult cases were
successfully managed by him; he had even saved the life of Agatha's
jack-daw when it had swallowed a thimble. Mr Greenop was an object,
therefore, of gratitude and admiration, and no visit to Dorminster was
complete without going to his shop.
So when Jackie asked in an off-hand manner, "Shall you be going near
Greenop's, father?" the squire knew that his answer was waited for with
anxiety, and said at once:
"Yes, I'm going to the gunmaker's next door."
That was all right. Jackie screwed up his shoulders in an ecstasy.
"Father's always an immense long time at the gunmaker's," he said; "we
shall have time to look at all Greenop's things. I hope he's got some
new ones."
"And I want to buy some hemp-seed," said Mary.
Mr Greenop welcomed the children with his usual brisk cheerfulness, and
had, as Jackie had hoped, a good many new things to show them; the
nicest of all was a bullfinch which piped the tune of "Bonnie Dundee"
"at command," as his owner expressed it. The children were delighted
with it, and immediately asked the price, which was their custom with
every article of Mr Greenop's stock, and being told, proceeded to
examine further. They came upon a charming squirrel with the bushiest
tail possible, and while they were admiring it Mr Greenop was called to
attend on a customer.
"Jackie," said Mary suddenly, "if you might choose, what would you have
out of all the shop?"
Jackie looked thoughtful. His birthday was approaching, and though he
would not have hinted at such a thing, it did pass through his mind that
Mary's question might have something to do with that occasion. He
studied the matter therefore with the attention it deserved, for he had
to consider both his own inclinations and the limits of Mary's purse.
At last he said deliberately:
"The squirrel. What would _you_ choose?"
"The piping bullfinch," said Mary, without an instant's hesitation.
"Why," exclaimed Jackie, "that's almost the most expensive thing in the
shop!"
"I don't see that that matters at all," answered Mary. "You asked me
what I liked best, and I like that best--much."
More customers and acquaintances had now crowded in, and the little shop
was quite full.
"I believe we've seen everything," said Jackie; "let's get up in the
dog-cart and wait there for father. Oh," he continued with a sigh, when
they were seated again, "_how_ jolly it must be to be Greenop! Wouldn't
you like to be him?"
"No," said Mary decidedly, "I shouldn't like it at all; I couldn't bear
it."
"Why?" asked Jackie.
"Oh, because he's quite a common man, and tucks up his shirt sleeves,
and keeps a shop."
"Well, that's just the nice part of it," said Jackie eagerly--"so
interesting, always to be among the animals and things. And then his
shop's in the very best part of Dorminster, where he can see everything
pass, and all his friends drop in and tell him the news. I don't expect
he's ever dull."
"I daresay not," said Mary, with a shrug of contempt; "but I shouldn't
like to be a common vulgar man like that."
Jackie got quite hot.
"I don't believe Greenop's vulgar at all," he said. "Look how he
stuffed those pheasants for father. I heard father say, `Greenop's an
uncommonly clever fellow!' Father likes to talk to him, so he can't be
vulgar."
Mary did not want another quarrel; she tried to soften her speech down.
"But you see I couldn't be _Mr_. Greenop," she said, "I could only be
_Mrs_. Greenop, and sit in that dull little hole at the back of the
shop and darn all day."
"Oh, well," Jackie acknowledged, "that might not be so pleasant; but,"
he added, "you might be his daughter, and help to feed the birds, and
serve in the shop."
Mary tossed her head.
"What's the good of talking like that?" she said; "I'm _not_ his
daughter, and I'm sure I don't want to be."
"But you're always fond of pretending things," persisted Jackie.
"Supposing you _could_ change, whose daughter would you like to be?"
"Well," said Mary, after a little reflection, "if I could change I
should like to be a countess, or a princess, or a Lady somebody. Lady
Mary Vallance sounds rather nice, I think."
Just then the squire came out of the shop, and they soon started rapidly
homewards.
"Mary," said Jackie, squeezing himself close up to her, when they were
well on the way, and lowering his voice mysteriously, "I've got a secret
to tell you."
Jackie's secrets were never very important, and Mary was not prepared to
be interested in this one.
"Have you?" she said absently; "look at all those crows in that field."
"Oh, if you don't want to hear it--" said Jackie, drawing back with a
hurt expression; "it's something to do with you, too."
"Well, what is it?" said Mary; "I'm listening."
"I haven't told Agatha, or Jennie, or Patrick," continued he in an
injured voice.
"Why, it wouldn't be a secret if you had," said Mary. "Go on; I really
want to hear it."
"It was yesterday," began Jackie, lowering his voice again; "I was
sitting in the school-room window-seat reading, and Rice came in with a
message for Fraulein. And then she stayed talking about lots of things,
and then they began to talk about you." Jackie paused.
"That's not much of a secret," said Mary. "Is that all?"
"Of course not. It's only the beginning. They said a lot which I
didn't hear, and then Rice told Fraulein a long story in a very low
voice, and Fraulein held up her hands and called out `Himmel!' But the
part I really did hear was the last bit."
"Well," said Mary, "what was it? I don't think anything of what you've
told me yet."
"`These awful words fell upon my ears,'" said Jackie gloomily, quoting
from a favourite ghost story: "`As brown as a berry, and her name's no
more Mary Vallance than mine is!'"
"But I'm not as brown as a berry," said Mary. "You must have heard
wrong. They couldn't have been talking about me at all."
"I know they were," said Jackie with decision, "for when Fraulein saw me
she nodded at Rice and put her finger on her lip, and Rice said
something about `buried in his book.' You see," added Jackie, "I didn't
really _listen_, but I heard--because I couldn't help it."
Wensdale was now in sight, and five minutes afterwards the dog-cart
stopped at the vicarage gate.
"Don't tell anyone else," whispered Mary hurriedly as she clambered
down. "I'm going to ask mother about it."
She ran into the house feeling rather excited, but almost sure that
Jackie was mistaken. He often made muddles. What was her astonishment,
therefore, after pouring out the story breathlessly, when Mrs Vallance,
instead of laughing at the idea, only looked very grave and kept
silence.
"Of course I am Mary Vallance, ain't I, mother?" she repeated.
"You are our dear little adopted daughter," said Mrs Vallance; "but
that is not really your name."
"What is it then?" asked Mary.
"I do not know. Some day I will tell you how you first came here, but
not until you are older."
How mysterious it all was! Mary gazed thoughtfully out into the quiet
road, at the ducks splashing about in the river; but she was not
thinking of them, her head seemed to whirl. Presently she said:
"Do you know my real mother and father?"
"No," answered Mrs Vallance.
"Perhaps," continued Mary, after a pause, "they live in a big house like
the Chelwoods, and have a garden and a park like theirs."
"Perhaps they have," said Mrs Vallance, "and perhaps they live in a
little cottage like the blacksmith and his wife, and have no garden at
all."
"Oh, I shouldn't like that at all," said Mary quickly; then she suddenly
threw her arms round Mrs Vallance's neck and kissed her.
"Whoever they are," she said, "I love you and father best, and always
shall."
She asked a great many more questions, but Mrs Vallance seemed
determined to answer nothing but "yes" and "no." It was very
disappointing to know so much and yet so little, and it seemed
impossible to wait patiently till she was older to hear more. At last
Mrs Vallance forbade the subject:
"I don't want you to talk of this any more now, Mary," she said. "When
the proper time comes, you shall hear all I have to tell; what I want
you to remember is this: _Whoever_ you are, and whatever sort of people
you belong to, you cannot alter it; but you may have a great deal to do
with _what_ you are. We can all make our characters noble by goodness,
however poor our stations are; but if we are proud and vain, and despise
others, nothing can save us from becoming vulgar and low, even if we
belong to very high rank indeed. That is all you have to think of."
Excellent advice; but though Mary heard all the words, they did not sink
into her mind any more than the water on the ducks' backs in the river
outside; they rolled off it at once, and only the wonderful, wonderful
fact remained, that she was not Mary Vallance. Who was she, then? And,
above all, what could Rice have meant by "brown as a berry?" Who was
brown as a berry? Certainly not Mary herself; she was quite used to
hearing that she was "as white as snow" and "as fair as a lily"--it was
Agatha Chelwood who had a brown skin. Altogether it was very mysterious
and deeply interesting; soon she began to make up long stories about
herself, in which it was always discovered at last that she belonged to
very rich people with grand titles. This was what people had meant when
they whispered that she was "no common child." Mary's foolish head was
in a whirl of excitement, and filled from morning to night with visions
of grandeur. If the little clog could only have spoken! Mute, yet full
of expression it stood there, while Mary dreamed in her little white bed
of palaces and princesses.
"I was not made," it would have said, "for foot of princess or lady, or
to tread on soft carpets and take dainty steps; I am a hardworking shoe
made by rough hands, though the heart they belonged to was kind and
gentle; I have nothing to do with luxury and idleness."
But no one understood this silent language. The clog was admired, and
wondered at, and called "a quaint little shoe," and its history remained
unknown.
Mary longed now to tell Jackie her mighty secret, which began to weigh
too heavily to keep to herself; but when he did come to the vicarage
again, he was not nearly so much impressed by it as she had hoped. This
was partly, perhaps, because his mind was full of a certain project
which he wished her to join, and she had scarcely bound him by a solemn
promise not to breathe a word to the other children of what she had told
him, than he began eagerly:
"We're going to spend the day at Maskells to-morrow--the _whole_ day.
Will Mrs Vallance let you go too?"
"Come and ask her," said Mary; and Jackie, rather breathless, for he had
run the whole way from the White House, proceeded with his request:
"The donkey-cart's going," he said, "and the three little ones, and
Rice, and Fraulein, and all of us, and we're going quite early because
it's so hot, and we shall stop to tea, and make a fire, of course, and
mother hopes you'll let Mary go."
"Well, I can't say no," said Mrs Vallance, smiling at Jackie's heated
face; "but I'm not very fond of Maskells, there are so many dangerous
places in it."
"Oh, you mean the forbidden rooms," said Jackie; "we don't go into those
now. There are three of them, where the floor's given way, you know,
with great holes in them. Maskells is _such_ a jolly place," he added
pleadingly; "we don't like any other half so well."
"You say Fraulein is going?" said Mrs Vallance.
"Yes, and Rice, too; but they won't be in the way, because Fraulein's
going to sketch, and Rice will have to be with the little ones."
"I hope they _will_ be in the way," replied Mrs Vallance, "and prevent
you heedless children climbing about in unsafe places and breaking your
limbs."
"Then Mary may go? And we start _punctually_ at nine, so she mustn't be
late."
Consent once given, Jackie took his departure, and his stout
knickerbockered legs were soon out of sight.
Mary was delighted, for Maskells was the most charming place possible to
spend a day in, and the prospect of going there made her forget for a
time the one subject which had lately filled her mind--herself.
Maskells was a deserted house standing near the high-road between the
White House and Dorminster; it had once been a place of some
consequence, and still had pleasant meadows round it, sloping down to a
river at the back; but the garden and orchard were tangled and
neglected--much more interesting, the children thought, than if they had
been properly cared for.
The house had two projecting wings, and quaint latticed windows;
outside, it had the appearance of being in tolerable repair, but there
was in truth scarcely a whole room in it, floors and ceilings had given
way, and great rifts and gaps yawned in them. The rotten old staircases
were all the more dangerous because they still looked firm enough to
bear a light weight, and though Jackie had once crawled up to the top of
one, out on to the roof, the attempt was never repeated. He had
remained there for half an hour clinging on to the side of a tall
chimney, unable to move, until a farmer had fetched a ladder and got him
down. Since then staircases and upper rooms had been forbidden, and the
children had to content themselves with playing on the ground floor and
in the outhouses. There was a mystery hanging about the old place which
added to its attractions, for they had heard that it had fallen into
this decay and been uninhabited so long because it was "in Chancery." A
mysterious expression, which might mean anything, and was more than
enough to clothe it with all the terrors which belong to the unknown.
When dusk came on, and the owls and bats flapped their wings in shadowy
corners, it was desirable to cling closely together and feel afraid in
company--a tremor was excusable in the boldest. Patrick, indeed, always
declared he had once seen a ghost in Maskells. Pressed for details, he
had been unable to give any clear account of it, and was a good deal
laughed at, especially by Mary; but it was dimly felt by all that there
might be truth in it--anything was possible for a place "in Chancery."
Mary liked to imagine things about Maskells; it would do for the Tower
of London with dungeons in it, or for Lochleven with Mary Queen of Scots
escaping by night, or for a besieged castle, and hundreds of other
fancies. She invented games founded on those scenes which were popular
at first, but as she always took the leading parts herself, the other
children soon tired of them.
"Don't let's pretend anything else," Jennie would say, who had a
practical mind; "let's have a game of hide-and-seek."
And certainly no place could have been better fitted than Maskells for
the purpose.